Body after baby

Poor curvy Jessica Simpson. Come to find out, she's a normal person. Seven months after giving birth, she still looks Rubensque as she strollers around in tunics and hooker platforms. Happy, healthy, and maybe pregnant, I can't help but wonder if she got knocked up again so quickly just so she can bounce on her Weight Watchers deal.

I realize that not everyone's created equal. Gisele, Heidi, Miranda—these freaks of nature were bouncing their newborns off their taut tummies within the first two weeks. Kate Hudson's post-baby abs should get their own credit on Glee.

Bitches all.

I've never given birth but I feel for moms, or any woman for that matter. How are we supposed to explain our pooch—be it from a burrito baby or actual infant—when there are assholes out there showing off their six-pack with their six week old on their hip? Not cool. When celebrimoms grace the cover of US Weekly, claiming their speedy weight loss is due to breast feeding or a high metabolism or good genes, we know you're lying like a rug. You have Jillian Michaels, a nanny, a food delivery service, an impressive collection of Spanx, and possibly a wet nurse tucked away somewhere.

Please, give us a break and give us a chance. Step away from the Pilates Reformer, enjoy your baby, and let us have a moment in the spotlight with our Miraclesuits and jaunty scarves that draw the eye up.

Fuck you, Kristin Cavallari.

(photo: Jessica Alba, four months after giving birth; www.nydailynews.com)

Truck nuts

An image is worth a thousand words. A thousand cuss words, that is. The only consolation about staring at these ballsacs while stuck in traffic is getting to see the sac of shit driving the monster truck when you finally pass him and leave his bumper nuts in the dust.

Dude is seriously compensating. Like John Bobbit compensating.

Maybe I’m picking on low-hanging fruit here but I believe the person who hangs testicles from his trailer hitch is a massive tool with a tiny dick. That’s the only reason I can imagine showcasing such nutty behavior.

I’m confident in saying that the testes are the most precious of boy parts, the Achilles Heel of the groin region. A well-placed soccer ball or knee can fell a man and turn him temporarily into a helium-sucking castrato. So why in the name of Cisco Adler’s balls would you leave these swaying in the wind? You're just inviting any civilized person to rear end yo’ ass and crack those nuts. Kick these plastic nads to the curb before you get punched in your actual hairy cherries.

(photo: 67-72chevytrucks.com) 

Long toenails

Riddle me this, ladyhawke:

Are you trying to pick up small rodents during flight?

Because that’s the only reason I can imagine that you’re clicking along with those talons looping over your flip-flops like a grounded raptor.

Isn’t there a point where life and practicality might suggest that you whittle those can-openers off? Like, for instance, when putting on a closed-toe shoe? Or your basic bipedal walking?

Clip, saw, file, chew, and otherwise hack those claws off or I’m going to have to sic an actual bird of prey on your ungroomed hooves. Their beaks can clip those nails in no time.

(photo: longtoenails.org)

Skin tags

I accept that that hard living, the environment, the passing of years, and, in my case, a certain lack of balance, can take its toll on the body. Sunburned skin, puffy eyes, scars, moles, a tattoo from a certain Tijuana blackout… You name it, our body is a unique constellation of oddities and quirks that make us, well, us.

I can live with that.

For the most part, anyway. When I can see a clear cause and effect, I can suck it up and bear the dairy-driven rosacea or escalator scar from a New Year’s Eve gone terribly wrong. But I can’t wrap my mind around skin tags.

These tiny growths create a flesh-colored necklace around my neck, or pop up in an armpit or under a boob. Skin tags are basically body barnacles. And I want them scraped off my hull lickety-split. I’m all for personal growth, but that doesn’t mean I want little bits and pieces of skin rubbing against pendants or chafing against an underwire. While punching doesn’t help much in this case, clipping, burning, and excising in my derm’s office will teach these outcroppings not to rear their ugly heads. Tag, you’re hit.

(photo: skintagsremove.com)

Nose hair

Aging blows.

I’ve always been a gal who wants to own her age. I haven’t had any work done, but I stay out of the sun and use spendy lotions and potions to look as great for my age as possible.

I’ve done a fine job of preventing turkey neck and crow’s feet, but even I couldn’t stave off the nose hair (or chin whiskers, for that matter). Now, look, I’m not looking a genetic gift horse in the mouth (or nostril). My Western European ethnic makeup has resulted in very light to no body hair. For that, I’m thankful (and a bit super-cilia-ous since I have the highly waxed, lasered, and bleached Armenian Sisters Kardashian beat in this arena).

However, time marches on and up my nose, apparently, because as of late, small little dark hairs have the nerve to show their follicles at the entrance to my schnoz.

I turn up my nose at this turn of events, but only to better tweeze the random hair apparent. Aging blows, just like my nose.

(photo: flickrhivemind.net)

Navel lint

Cue bombchickabowbow porn music. Turn the lights down. It’s time to get busy. In other words, it’s ON.

And as I go south, it’s suddenly, screechingly OFF. Like nine kinds of OFF.

I was sorta hoping that your body would be a wonderland. Instead, it’s a toxic waste dump up in there. Are you hoarding food or insulating for a hard winter? 
Check your nooks and crannies, people. Smelly belly button crud is a definite downer, and will probably ensure that I’m not going to be traveling down your yummy trail.

Rinsing does not a shower make.

(photo: scienceblogs.com)

Boob sweat

It’s hot. I can tell this by the thermometer and by the sweat pooling under my breasts. Guys have their equivalent of this, which a friend nicknamed “ball soup.” I’m pretty sure no one would voluntarily choose to order this unappetizing dish off the men-u.

Bras help lift the ta-tas away from skin-on-skin action but if it’s hot and humid, they tend to chafe and add their own sort of frilly hell to the problem. Maybe the thing to do is create a new take on the headband. A band of absorbent terrycloth or newfangled wicking fabric around the torso could mop up tit sweat and keep my melons from rubbing me the wrong way.

(photo: guidespot.com)

Lactose intolerants in denial

This anything-but-cheesey post comes from my brilliant and hilarious friend Karrie Kohlhaas (she's the force behind ThoughShot Consulting, in case you need any small-business consulting). I love it almost as much as I love cheese. Urp.

Your dairy air is dangerous. I know, you loooove ice cream and cottage cheese, but lactose transforms your insides into a Dr. Seussian smell factory. It's time to get real about your digestion, honey. Can't you feel the pressure against your abdominal wall as gasses mushroom and multiply within the twisting tubes of your inner world?

Don't you wonder why people steer clear of you?

Here's a clue: It's awkward to feel compelled to casually cover one's nose and mouth with the top of one's shirt when sharing a seat on the bus or standing behind you in line at the grocery store. This is not a personal health issue; you are an environmental hazard. Enzymes: get some, before the EPA classifies you as a SuperFund Project.

(photo: cvmbs.colostate.edu)

Adult acne

I gotta level with you: puberty was fucking rough. I was taller than the boys in my fifth-grade class, my boobs reached double-D status around the same time, and my piss-poor eyesight resulted in Coke-bottle-thick glasses that made my eyes look like tiny green specks somewhere back there.

But the gods showed mercy. I didn’t have to deal with acne. Occasionally I had a zit that I dotted with Clearasil, but for the most part, my skin was my best feature, creamy and smooth like my favorite ice cream.

Then I grew up and the universe decided to royally fuck me over. I take care of my skin better than ever. I pamper it, I eat well, I stay out of the sun. Washing my face is my favorite part of the day, sad as that sounds.

But regardless of my tender loving care, zits seem to pop up all over my face like a hormonal round of Whac-a-Mole. As soon as I hit one, another crops up on the other side of my nose, giving new meaning to “turn the other cheek.”

I’d lay waste to my epidermis with a Silkwood-grade spray of benzoyl peroxide but I’m pretty sure it would exacerbate the problem. So I’ll keep spackling away and trying not to look at the Fresnel lens on my forehead. Thankfully, my eyesight is holding steady at –11.5.

(And by the way, Proactiv is really, really bad for your skin.)

(photo: acneknower.com)

Kristen Stewart’s posture

You’re gorgeous, young, and rich. You’re part of the biggest movie franchise around, save maybe Harry Potter. You have a vampire AND a werewolf fighting over you, for chrissakes. Life, unlike the Volturi, doesn’t suck.

Own it.

Stand up straight.

Every time I see you at an schmancy event, hunched over and rocking back and forth like a rhesus monkey who misses its mom, all I think is “Gollum in lipgloss.”

You’re all moody and shit, equating paparazzi photos of you to images of someone being raped. Newsflash, Bella, you don’t get to be emo in Proenza Schouler. You shouldn’t be pissy while getting oxygen facials, being adored by the world's 15 year olds, and macking on R-Patz.

Take some calcium, hit a Pilates Reformer class, and stop looking like you’re itching to ring the bells of Notre Dame at twilight.

(photo: celebrity-mania.com)

Chin whiskers

It’s hard enough accepting the gray hairs that are sprouting like unwelcome weeds amongst the chestnut crop of my hair. But the indignity of age marches south like Sherman, settling on my chin in the form of the occasional whisker.

For such a plucky word, whiskers are mortifying. I used to run into them once in a blue moon when I felt something amiss while stroking my chin. Now I studiously examine my chin whenever I’m washing my face, hoping to nip a new whisker in the bud. They probably aren’t noticeable to anyone other than me, but who the hell cares? I don’t want to acknowledge that my hormones are serving me up a side dish of crone to go with my aging gracefully entrée.

It may be natural, but it’s just not right.

Instead of taking it on the chin like the juicy 40-something gal that I am, I am going to keep patrolling my face for any signs of a prickly chin weed. And then I’m going to mow that motherplucker down any way I can. To paraphrase that old adage, the grass is always greener on the other side…of a laser hair removal treatment.

(photo: thestuff.nakatomiinc.com)

Waking up with a headache

For the second day in a row, I’ve woken up with my head throbbing. Yeah, I know I ate like crap yesterday. I got the memo about the pollen count. Yeah, I know I’m stressed. Yeah, I know I need to exercise. Yes, I’m aware that Tax Day is approaching. There’s no need to remind me, Body. I don’t need a subdural Post-it note slapped on my brain. Message received, loud and fucking clear. In fact, I can’t get it out of my head.

I want to beat my headache in its annoying face with a jumbo bottle of ibu but sadly, I’d be whacking myself between the eyes. Instead, I’m going to draw the blinds, turn down the volume, and hope that my brain pain recedes and that I can look at my MacBook without having to don my sunglasses.

(photo: fotosearch.com)

Victoria's Secret

Body by Victoria? Gimme a break. Body by mom, dad, and my trainer. The last time when I was in Vikki’s—someone gave me a gift certificate—every fucking bra was padded. Every. Single. One.

In the black and pink world of Victoria’s Secret, everyone wants bigger boobs. Call it crazy, but some of us don’t. In fact, some of us even have resorted to surgery to knock our knockers down a size or two. Get called Dolly Parton Jr. once in fifth grade and you won’t be wishing for a Body by Dupont anytime soon, Alessandra Ambrosia.

And what happens when the secret is revealed? A hand goes in for the grope as the player gets to second base, only to discover a thick molded barrier and a squishy chicken cutlet. Mmm, appetizing.

Giselle, I’d punch you in the boob but I know it wouldn’t hurt because of your lacy shield so I guess I’m just going to have swap out the cutlets for some rocks and whip you with a real over-the-shoulder boulder holder.

(photo: victoriassecret.com)

Miley Cyrus’ cheeks

I know it’s not nice to pick on teenagers but when they straddle the pole, all bets are off. So here it is: Miley Cyrus has some big-ass cheeks, and I’m not talking about her ass cheeks.

Even accounting for baby fat, you've gotta admit that Hannah Mouthana has a freaky pair of pancakes on her pretty puss.

Sorry, Smiley, but the party isn’t in the U.S.A.: it’s in your mouth. In fact, I think a DJ is spinning in your left cheek right now. And sweetcheeks, with your bank account, there’s really no need to be storing nuts for winter.

I'm not going to punch you in the face, since I don't believe in hurting baby animals, but I'm trusting that the cheekiness subsides in a few years. If not, I know of a few Real Housewives who'd be happy to take your baby face off your hands to plump up their own.

(photo: dankando.wordpress.com)

Back fat

It’s bad enough that I have boobies busting out of my front side. Do I really need my body jutting out of my back? No matter my weight, when I strap on a bra, the layer of fat I’ve accumulated for winter hibernation oozes under and over the band.

Needless to say, this is decidedly not hot.

Don’t misunderstand me: that layer of fat is insulating me, but it’s the only thing keeping me warm since no one wants to get near my built-in pillow. It’s like spooning with Quasimodo. It’s not all bad, I suppose. My punchback is great for uncomfortable plane flights—no need to take up space in my carry-on with a bucky pillow when I’m rocking the Maidendeform.

But that might be the only upside to my body goo. Oh, and I suppose there’s one other consolation: if I punch back fat in its face, it will absorb the impact and prevent any damage to my internal organs. There I go again, being all glass half-full and shit.


(photo: losefatfrom.com)

Jay Leno’s chin

Maybe it’s just because NBC is trying to push Conan out of the 11:30 slot to make room for Jay's face. Maybe it’s because he reminds me of one banana-jawed ex-boyfriend. But whatever the case, I want to beat the shit out of Jay’s mammoth chin.

There’s all this talk about lollipop-headed anorexic actresses with heads too big for their body. Please. Those noggins are lightweights compared with Jay’s disproportionate head. Specifically, his elephant man chin.

Punching it will assuredly result in nerve damage to my left hand, as I suspect the bone is twice as thick as other talk show hosts. So Jay’s chin, which Google Earth is reputedly zeroing in on, would be better served with a trip to plastic surgeon Steven M. Hoefflin. If he could make Michael Jackson’s face disappear, this medical magician could certainly shave down that late-night eyesore.

(photo: dirtywhiteblog.wordpress.com)

Rachel Zoe's chest

Every time I get a glimpse of stylist Rachel Zoe’s bony chest beneath a giant yeti pelt vest, I literally—or “litrally,” as she says—have to look away. I avert my eyes quickly, much like I do when that starving children commercial with Laurie Metcalf pops up during my late-night cable trolling. I have to look away like Perseus did when he took on Medusa. I too fear turning to stone, but not because of Zoe’s snake-like locks.

It’s her sternum. I’m afraid that it’s going to poke and kill a random passerby. I could play the xylophone on her breast bone and ribs. She doesn’t need to wear one of her giant-ass necklaces; she’s already sporting a bone collar. Like a cross-section of wood, you can add up the rings to determine her age. And by the number of rings jutting out of her chest, she should stop saying, “I die,” because, by my count, she should already be dead.

Zero isn’t a size, it’s a sickness. Desiccate & Emaciate is not a new design label; it's an apt description of your dried-up husk. Stop saying “bananas” and start eating them…literally.

(Photo: evilbeetgossip.film.com)

Mariah Carey's closet

There are certain folks who would give their right tit for your wardrobe…if they had one. See, Mimi, you have one dragalicious collection of clothes. Come to think of it, drag queens would probably turn their powdered noses up at your trashy-assed closet too. Your body is bangin’, but stuffed into sequined, skintight, skimpy clothes, you look like a space-age sausage. Vision of Glove is never gonna get you on a best-dressed list. Stylists like Clinton and Stacy are always harping on proper fit, but tight is equally as bad as baggy. Rule of thumb: if you can see your belly button through a garment, ditch it.

And for God’s sake, put the girls away. We know you’ve got pipes on you…since you showcase your chest at every opportunity. Side boob, underboob, bouncing-around-like-a-sack-of-puppies cleavage… Get those things under control and out of sight. You could take out an innocent passerby, you could blind a young fan.

Paula created a diversion for a few years with her sartorial junk show but now that she’s gone from Idol, you’d best clean your shit up. Soften up your look, find some jeans with more than a 1-inch rise, look for things that allow you to sit without your bits and pieces sticking to the seat (Was “Touch My Body” an ode to your favorite chair?), and buy a fucking bra. And maybe then, I’ll only deride you for your music.

(Photo: examiner.com)

Nicole Kidman’s forehead

Did your frontal lobe suffer a paralyzing stroke? Has your forehead been replaced by an ostrich egg? What is the deal with your forehead?

If I ever learn to ski, I hope I can skip the bunny slope and do a trial run down your noggin. It’s Satine-smooth and there’s no fear of an avalanche. If there was a tremor or earthquake in the vicinity, your forehead would remain dead calm.

I fell asleep during Eyes Wide Shut but I think it was the story of your life, since your forehead is pulling the skin so tight that you can’t close your eyes. Keith probably married you for other reasons but it can’t hurt that he can check his razored haircut in the reflecting pool on your face.

Your fashion sense may be to die for, but I have to question your penchant for Botox. Back away from the botulism, grow some bangs, and put that thing away…unless, of course, it’s how you signal to your people in space. Then of course, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

(Photo: There is a blog called "Nicole Kidman's Forehead! This photo came from it. That fact that this blog exists just made my day.)

Nicolas Cage’s hairline

Is Nic Cage honoring the eroding coastline of California? Did he melt a record and fit it over his melon? Are times so tough that this national treasure can’t afford a full head of plugs?

Add to ConHair’s freaky coif an increasingly gaunt face and you’ve got Skelator in a skullcap. I’m absolutely goonstruck looking at Hair-raising Arizona. No one’s forehead should end at the crown. Normally mild at heart, I have no choice but to take this hair yarmulke into my own hands. I’m going to face-off against Mr. Moppola and my weapon of choice is a straight razor. I’m shaving that shit old-school and landscaping the back of his head. It’ll be gone in 60 seconds.

(Note: This Letterman interview is a snooze but you can get an eyeful of Peggy Sue Got Hairried.)